Bury This (15 page)

They got Kiss playing on the radio. Leave the car doors open and blast it.

“I-I wanna rock-and-roll all ni-i-ight . . . and party ev-er-y day!

“I-I wanna rock-and-roll all ni-i-ight . . . ”

You can sing along, too, if you want. No one'll notice. These bastards are loose, and getting looser. Look at Billy! He's pretending to fall off the jetty! Look at Russ! He's pretending to push him! Oh, yeah, Shauna is not wearing much. They're asking, who's the new girl? The girl in the white bikini. Yeah, her. Man. Oh man. I could show her a few things . . .

Shauna is showing Beth how to jump off the levee. It's better if you take a running start. See. Now Shauna is running and flying off the cement, out off into the air and over the rocks. A sprawl into the hot-glare sky. She made it!

Now it's Beth's turn. Don't be nervous. Show her where to start.

“See. Just go from here, take off and just go for it. Don't slow down. Whatever you do.”

Beth looks up, now she's a saucer-eyed baby girl, but tuck her hair behind her ear. Make her soft. Melt her.

“You can do it. I know you can.”

That plate face looking up. Eyes like an alien.

“Hey. I know!”

An idea now, running back to the green Plymouth, fast-forward the cassette.

“Just hold on. One second.”

Pause.

“Okay, now. Here it comes . . . ”

Blasting out of the Plymouth, turn that dial up. Crank it up!

“Beth, I hear you calling

“But I won't be home right now

“Me and the boys . . . ”

What a hoot! They're all gonna sing now. Everybody loves Beth (the song) and now everybody loves Beth (the girl). Go, Beth, go! Jump off the levee! You can do it! They're playing your song!

And Beth takes her mark, salutes, takes a running start and flies off the levee.
SPLASH!
Down below into the green murk water.

Applause. Whistles. Hoots.

The sun blazing white through the trees.

Here she comes now, out of the water. Look at her. She takes a bow. Ha. That's a good one. That's a real good one in the white string bikini. White string bikini see-through wet, see-through now, see-through nipples.

Oh man, I could show her a few things . . .

SIX

T
he fall is coming down fast, the trees smelling of wet smoke, summer folding up and then poof gone and just the circus of holidays, marching forward grandly down the road. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's. A collective upheaval. An imminent madness, finally a frenzy, a panic, and then the great shriek of New Year's and back to square one.

A four-month ritual from light to carnival to gracious thanks, to beating each other up at the mall to a squeal and a kiss under a tinsel cone hat after FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE! And then, what is it . . . what comes next?

But Shauna couldn't care less about that now, staring at Jeff Cody's back, now sleeping and turned away. A colt. A buck. Her own personal Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill Cody. How lucky she was. Covered in sweat she'll never want to wash off. Never, never! It's his! It's a part of him!

Trying not to think of the growing frequency between phone calls and the eyes looking around mid-sentence and the fact that he always, always slept with his back turned away.

At the foot of the bed, a window, a window she had looked up at, alone, not all the time, not every night, not like she was
stalking him or anything, it's just. Well, he hadn't called. She'd thought he would call and then he hadn't and she found herself, there, right outside there on the sidewalk, looking up. Is he there? Is the light on? It looks like the light's on in the hallway maybe? Is that him? Does he see me? Wait, is that someone else? No, please God don't be someone else. Oh, no, it's him. It's him! Make sure he doesn't see. Did he see me?

Looking now from the inside, from the bed, at that window, how could she be so silly? Of course he loved her. Of course he did. Listen, he fucked her. He fucked her almost every night. And you know what else? He would get shit-faced, obliterated, and confess he was in love with her, grabbing her by the wrists, almost a plea . . . and even though his eyes were rolling back in his head, and even though he kept bumping into the furniture, and even though he was on enough pills to kill an elephant; pills to go up, pills to go down, pills to go any which way around, even so . . . it was obvious he loved her. In vino Veritas. It was at this time, these stumbling times, that he revealed himself, his true self, wrapped away and sealed in concrete at all other times. He was a man, you know.

And there's the proof, too. What about that day? Last summer, in Greensborough, they'd gone to El Compadre, a kitschy, cantina-style place with a mariachi band, yellow pepper lights, and margarita specials first Tuesdays. But this was a Wednesday, empty, except for those two secretaries drinking zinfandel. That night, Shauna's head swimming in strawberry blended margarita number three, or maybe four, make it a double. Seeing, and not seeing, the oxford shirt in the next booth. Looks like he keeps looking. Looks like he keeps looking at her.

Shauna Boggs who'd been fucked all day, fucked and then fucked again by Jeff Cody, not to mention then again in the Plymouth right before. Right there! Shauna for once in her life glowing, not to mention that macramé dress, a cream dress, see-through in places. Demure places. Strategic places. And yes, oh yes, the levee tan, the yarn-dress, the summer-fuck-it skin. Forget it. Shauna Boggs was the belle of El Compadre, Greensborough, Michigan.

And then the guy in the next booth, that Shirt with the ruddy face and maybe he's here after work. Red booth, red candles, ruddy face . . . red, red, red and now Jeff Cody is gonna see red, too. Two pills in and three Cadillac margaritas. He is starting to notice. He's starting to piece together the plot here against him and his girl at this here hacienda and there's gonna be a show-down. No, caballeros, two pills in and drink three and he's got a bone to pick, see.

There's a waiter there, fawning. Why is he fawning? Talking to the Shirt about the Mark Cross leather interior of his white convertible Pontiac Grand Ville '76. Now the waiter whistles, says that's one cherry of a car, a real beaut.

Shauna isn't pretending not to listen. Oh, she's listening. Over Jeff's shoulder now. Forget about Jeff. Jeff who? And then the Shirt is looking over. She's thinking maybe he's got something, something Jeff doesn't have. And never will. She's thinking maybe he's got something that makes things easy. Maybe all her troubles will be over, Lord, all that rent and all the white unmarked letters coming in these days, always from someplace in Delaware, all those credit card guys calling, threatening,
calling again. And what's she supposed to do with those credit card guys ringing and ringing some more, endless ringing, shut the fuck up. She only has so many hours in a day, so many hours in a night, so many nights of the week. And one of those nights, or two or three, are nights she's gotta spend with Jeff, to keep him, to keep him interested, right? But, lookit, those are nights she's not making money. It's not like she's a prostitute, it's nothing like that, it's just those guys help her out, those guys help her get by a little, right, and Jeff Cody doesn't do jack shit. Nope. Not one cent.

But this guy, this Shirt, well, he could help her out. Big time. And he knows it, too, you can tell because he's looking right at her, right through her, and he might as well just say it out loud.

“C'mon. Lose the loser. I'll make a decent woman out of you.”

The mariachi band is singing “Besame Mucho.” That Shirt is practically singing it to Shauna, swooning, serenading, smirking, so obvious it makes her blush. Don't let Jeff see.

But it's too late.

It's too late now, Shauna.

And now that mariachi band is no longer playing “Besame Mucho.” That mariachi band is playing . . . well, they're not playing anything . . . because they're short one guitar and that's because they got two mariachis standing, set back, staying out of it, and one mariachi staring at his guitar, which was just in his hands but is not in his hands anymore, where'd it go? Oh there it is, that guitar, that guitar going up down, up down, the trajectory of a battle-axe, over and over again,
smash smash smash
, into
the head, neck, back, ears, face of Mr. Looky-loo Shirt from the booth next to Shauna. On the floor next to Shauna. On the tile next to Shauna.

Yellow tile grout now gets to be red, that button-down shirt now gets to be red, that macramé dress now gets to be red
splat splat splat
. And the guitar, well, you can forget about the guitar now, amigo. That guitar now in splinters and slivers and splices of blood-splotch wood. That guitar now just a stem, just the neck of the guitar, nothing more. Throw it away.

But that's not all 'cause Jeff Cody's got the Shirt by the collar and now he's dragging the Shirt out, past the mariachis, past the zinfandel secretaries, past the
baños, damas y caballeros
, past the kitchen and the busboys in white. Everybody froze, on a dime, don't turn on us, don't see us, don't look.

And now Jeff Cody drags that Shirt to that cherry of a beaut, that white convertible Pontiac Grand Ville '76, staring straight back at him with its top down, baring its teeth. Dare you to stare down those headlights and don't forget to notice those white-walled tires.

But now Jeff Cody's got a plan to make that interior red, too, and he's got that Shirt and now you can forget about that Mark Cross leather interior, you can forget about those white-walled tires 'cause everything's getting painted red red red. And the Shirt can barely lift his head, but Jeff has him propped up now, propped up now in the driver's seat, it's your car, right.

Shauna's standing there now from the doorway, helpless.

“You like this car? You like this car?! Wanna ride around in this car, huh?!”

And now Jeff Cody's holding the Shirt, squeezing his head against the steering wheel, embedding his cheeks into the metal, white Mark Cross leather steel.

“You wanna take my girl for a ride, is that it? You gonna take my girl on a date?”

And getting quiet now, quiet down into his ears, a whisper.

“See. Nobody makes a fool of me. Nobody.”

But the Shirt's got his eyes closed. Pleading.

And then, to Shauna.

“Get in. Get in. I wanna see you go for a ride. I wanna see you on your big date!”

And Shauna standing in the doorway, thinking and not thinking, who to call, what to do, how to play it.

But he's marching to her now, “I told you I wanna see it. I wanna see you on your date! Let's see the happy couple.”

He's got her now, dragging her by the back of the neck like an alley cat, over oil stains, over puddles into that white convertible Pontiac Grand Ville '76. He's got her now, setting her down in the passenger seat, next to the Shirt made of blood-splat. That Shirt can't even look up, head on the steering wheel, lolling. The two of them, a zombie couple, shivering, a Halloween funhouse ride.

“Oh, now, don't you look pretty on your date? That is a handsome couple. Yessir.”

Shauna looking up from the passenger seat, shaking, “Please, just . . . ”

“You want out?” Act surprised, make it light.

Shauna nodding in millimeters.

“Oh, you want out?”

“Yes, please.”

“Who you wanna be with? You wanna be with him? He got what you want?!”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I wanna be with you.”

“What?”

“I wanna be with you.”

He makes her hold it. He keeps her sunk.

“Now, that's better.”

And the door gets unhinged and Shauna gets pulled out beside him, tucked under his arm and away from that Pontiac Grand Ville '76, driver pummeled dumb at the wheel. You can see them now, strolling soft down the sidewalk, his arm wrapped around her like a dove.

And that is love.

SEVEN

W
andering around unfocused, in the wayward hours between choir practice and her shift . . . making her way aimlessly from the Hackley Public Library, past the Port City Victorian, past the Dockers Fish House & Lounge and finally, inevitably, ending at the lighthouse.

The two red lighthouses, the Muskegon South Pier Light and the Muskegon South Breakwater Light, squaring off. Facing each other like pawns in a chess game.

What did it mean? Her head shook with the possibility. That lighthouse, bright red, in summer, picture-perfect red, white, and blue for the Fourth. The sand of the lake, a crisp white. The sky, a happy blue. The lighthouse, a shining red. A star-spangled landscape, pert as punch.

Then fall, the chill coming in. The trees, burnt burgundy and amber. The lake, a pitch-pine green. The sky, a bruised plum covered in dust.

Then, the blanket of winter wraps itself around the bluffs. All is white. A blinding, barren terrain. White the snow. White the lake. White the sky. But then even the lighthouse contributes. Red! Red amidst all that white. A happy surprise. A tip of the hat
to Christmas. A Joyeux Noel. An each-winter present, as recurring and disarming as a Christmas tree.